


Song of Antarctica

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Broken marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Mycroft the tenor, Pining, greg the director, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: AU Greg Lestrade is an award-winning maker of music documentaries. He's less than thrilled to end up making one about opera and the effect the enigmatic leading tenor, Mycroft Holmes, has on him is not helping heal his crumbling marriage.





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Bryn, who suggested a brilliant title and who supports my headcanon that Mycroft is a great singer. Also, I know bugger all about real opera, so all mistakes are mine. Rated for later chapters.

SONG OF ANTARCTICA 

Summary: AU Greg Lestrade is an award-winning maker of music documentaries. Opera is really not his thing and he's less than impressed when he's roped into making a fly-on-the-wall piece about the National Opera rehearsing Turandot for Glyndebourne. It also doesn't help that the lead tenor, Mycroft Holmes, has a less than desirable effect on someone trying to save his crumbling marriage…

CHAPTER ONE 

“Opera? You? What the fuck do you know about opera?”

Greg Lestrade's wife gave him a scornful look, her arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself.

Greg helped himself to a large whiskey from the half-empty bottle on the side board and sighed.

“ It's like I said, Karen. Chris was going to do it but the silly bastard broke both his wrists skiing last week and there's no one else.”

Karen Lestrade gave her husband a look of utter contempt.

“You survived a tour with Motley Crue, Greg. Now this. What happened to the bright ambitious young producer I married?”

Greg drained his glass refusing to rise to the argument because he knew what had happened to the pretty librarian he had been so proud to win. Four miscarriages, failed IVF and a husband who wasn't all he seemed. Their marriage was in its terminal phase but neither of them had the guts to pull the plug.

“I might surprise myself,” he mused. “It's a job anyway. I might know bugger all about opera, but I do know how to put a documentary together.”

Karen Lestrade rolled her eyes and walked away, shaking her head. Greg reached for the whisky bottle again.

In bed that night he reached for her but she turned away into her side leaving him feeling cold and unwanted and in the morning she was gone before he woke up.

Greg accepted her excuse of visiting the gym before work but he suspected she was getting a workout of a different kind. The signs were there but he chose to ignore them.

Greg hated confrontation and if that made him a coward then so be it.

He drove to the production offices and Mike Stamford ushered him into a seat.

“Sorry you got lumbered with this, Greg.” he said apologetically. “But you're the best there is. If the National can't attract more funding it may have to close and I wouldn't dream of sending anyone but the best to do this.”

“Spare me the flannel, Mike.” said Greg with a grin. “You do know I have zero interest in opera?”

“All the better,” said Mike gleefully. “You can be properly impartial. Anything you need, just ask.”

“I want Molly and Philip for camera and sound,” said Greg, enthusiasm kindling in his eyes. “It can't be a big crew if it's going to be a fly-on-the-wall job. I'll need background on the main players, a rehearsal schedule. Oh, and do me idea of the plot of this, what the hell d’you call it, Turandot.”

Mike laughed. “Plot? This is opera, mate . Plot is just something wedged in to move the songs along.”

“Oh, fabulous!” groaned Greg.

 

Two weeks later Greg arrived at the rehearsal space in Covent Garden just as a BBC van, driven by Philip Anderson, pulled up beside him. Molly Hooper waved from the passenger seat and Greg waved back, genuinely pleased to see both of them.

Molly and Philip were two of the best technicians he had ever worked with, BAFTA winners in their own right and he was surprised at their enthusiasm for this new project.

“The cast is incredible, “ said Molly as she helped unship the gear from the back of the van. “Mycroft Holmes is one of the best tenors in the world.”

“Never had you pegged as a fangirl, Molly.” teased Greg.

“You don't have to like opera to appreciate a beautiful voice,” she huffed. Philip nodded in agreement.

“She's right, you know. Mycroft Holmes has an amazing voice. He started as a chorister and his career just went up and up from there. Surely you remember him singing at the Proms last year, Greg? He brought the house down.”

“Must have missed it,” muttered Greg. “Let's try and be professional about this, guys. Mycroft Holmes isn't going to be too impressed if we go in there and you two start drooling all over the place.”

“He's gorgeous too “ added Molly, clearly not listening to a word Greg was saying.

“Christ almighty,” groaned Greg. 

“I thought he swore he'd never work with Irene Adler again?” continued Philip.

“They must have reconciled,” said Molly distractedly as she lifted her camera and followed the other two men through the entrance doors.

They were destined to be disappointed; both the primo uomo and the prima donna were absent. Sally Donovan, the musical director, couldn't have been more apologetic.

“They've been delayed in Reykjavik. Mr Holmes is teaching a masterclass here tomorrow, though and Miss Adler will be here as well.”

“It's fine,” said Greg soothingly. “It'll give us time to find out way round and work out the best angles without upsetting anyone.” Or tripping over any massive egos, he added silently. 

Eight hours later Greg's ears were ringing and his sanity was giving him some cause for concern. There seemed to be nothing to opera rehearsals but yelling, swearing and tantrums, not to mention arpeggios, scales and constant repetition at the same time.

In the pub later Greg asked the question he had been dreading.

“How much of what we've shot can we actually use?”

“About ten minutes,” replied Molly gloomily as she drained her gin and tonic.

“ This is going to die on its arse, isn't it?” he said, rubbing his face with both hands.

“It might get better tomorrow,” said Philip optimistically.

“I bloody hope so,” sighed Greg.

 

On the way home Greg slotted “This is my truth…” into the CD player, James Dean Bradfield and his exquisite voice soothing his battered ears and nerves.

Karen was waiting for him at home, a rare occurrence since he'd accepted the opera job, with a suitcase at her feet.

“What's going on?” Greg asked.

“I think we should have some time apart, Greg. It hasn't been good between us for a long time. I want to see if our marriage is worth fighting for.” she explained flatly. Greg felt sick. He knew things were far from perfect but he hadn't expected this.

“I dunno what's brought this on. Is there someone else?” he asked. She hesitated a fraction too long before replying.  
“No.”

“Liar “

“I'll be in touch,” she said, lifting the suitcase and walking out of the front door, closing it quietly behind her.

Greg sank into the sofa, his head in his hands and his emotions conflicted; shameful relief warring with misery at the loss of her. When a sob escaped his chest he wasn't sure what he was crying for.

 

“You look like shit!” exclaimed Molly the next day. Rumpled and unshaven with bloodshot eyes, Greg was only too aware of what he looked like. He had fallen asleep on the sofa, maudlin drunk and had slept in, leaving only time for the most cursory of ablutions.

“Karen left me last night,” he explained and Molly's expression softened.

“I'm sorry, Greg. She'll come back when she realises what she's missing.”

Greg didn't reply and Molly grabbed his arm, steering him into the building.

Greg followed her into one of the smaller rehearsal rooms where four young people he recognized from the opera chorus were sitting, their attention fixed in the other man in the room.

In the seconds before Mycroft Holmes noticed them and made his way over, Greg wished fervently for a TARDIS or a Time-Turner so he could have shown up here showered, shaved and dressed in something more presentable than tatty jeans and a Clash t-shirt.

Mycroft Holmes was the handsomest man Greg had ever seen; wavy red hair and a neatly-clipped beard, broad shoulders and chest leading to a trim waist and endless legs. He was impeccably dressed in neatly pressed chinos and a pale blue shirt which, as he got closer, Greg saw matched his eyes.

“Are you the people from the BBC?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Greg, mentally shaking himself “Greg Lestrade, I'm the director. Molly Hooper, camera and Philip Anderson, sound.”

“Very nice to meet you all. Now this is a masterclass. I hope you won't be in the way.”

Even his speaking voice was beautiful. No wonder women adored him, thought Greg.

“We've done this once or twice before, Mr Holmes. I promise we'll be as unobtrusive as possible.” he said.

Mycroft nodded and turned away, treating Greg to his glorious back view,which was almost as good as the front.

“Oh, I am in so.much trouble,” thought Greg as the other two set up. “ I'll never cope with three weeks of this”

TBC


	2. SOTTO VOCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is enchanted by a song. And the singer.

SOTTO VOCE

 

Greg watched as Molly and Philip set up and Mycroft stood impatiently by the piano, tapping his fingers on the polished wood.

Finally Greg got the nod from both of them and he gestured to Mycroft to proceed. Graceful as a dancer, Mycroft took a seat behind the piano. Everyone in the small room hung on his every word.

“I know that you have been working on your arais,” he said, his gaze moving from person to person. “In your entire singing career this is one of the most important things you will ever learn. It is a yardstick, nothing more, nothing less, of the quality of your singing voice. It must be perfect now so that in years to come, whenever you sing it, you will know how good your voice still is by how well you sing it or whether it, and you, need work. Miss Hopkins, you’re first.”

A tall, olive-skinned young woman with her lustrous black hair tied in a ponytail nervously approached the piano where Mycroft was waiting.

“Yours is ‘Tanto amore segreto’, is it not?” Mycroft asked, and she nodded. He smiled at her which seemed to increase her nervousness.”Quite appropriate as Turandot is what we will be performing. I will accompany you, Stella.”

His long fingers moved flawlessly over the keys, playing the introduction, then Stella Hopkins began to sing.

In spite of himself, Greg felt moved. He didn’t understand a word of what she was singing about but he got the sense of unrequited love and the associated pain. When she stopped he wanted to applaud but resisted as Mycroft had stood up to give his verdict. Molly zoomed in with the camera lens.

Good girl, thought Greg.When this is edited it’ll look even more intimate than it is already.

“Miss Hopkins, your girlfriend broke up with you six weeks ago, didn’t she?” enquired Mycroft. 

Startled, clearly not expecting such a question, all Stella could do was nod. “How on earth did you…?”

“It doesn’t matter. What you have done is channelled your heartbreak and pain into your aria and made it superb. No one can sing this particular aria with any kind of competency until their heart has been broken. You deserve both my condolences and my congratulations.”

Stella beamed at such lavish praise and Greg could clearly see what a lovely young woman she was. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw he wasn’t the only one appreciating the view, Molly looked like Christmas had just come early.

“A little more work on your top register, however.” Mycroft continued. “Will you do that?”

“Of course, “ beamed Stella. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

“Excellent. Mr Wilson, if you would be so kind.”

Greg watched the next student walk to the piano like he was going to the gallows. Whatever Mycroft Holmes lacked in warmth, he more than made up for in expertise.

Greg continued to watch and listen as the masterclass continued, advice and surprising announcements about the students continued to flow from Mycroft until it was done.

“You have all improved since last we met,” Mycroft concluded. “However, you still have some work to do until your arias are perfected. My own aria is one I return to time and again to ensure my standards haven’t slipped. I want you all to listen.”

He stood up from behind the piano and stepped to one side. The atmosphere in the room became charges with anticipation as Mycroft inhaled deeply and, unaccompanied, began to sing.

The flesh on Greg’s arms broke into goosebumps and the hair on the back of his neck rose as Mycroft continued. Greg had never heard anything like it. It made the efforts of the others seem pale and listless by comparison. The power and the passion took Greg’s breath away and it took all his effort to stop staring, open mouthed, as Mycroft finished to a round of applause.

As the students filed out of the room, Mycroft approached and Greg felt himself blush.

“Was that all right?” Mycroft asked.

“It was perfect,” mumbled Greg, unable to look the man in the eye, ashamed as he was of some of the thoughts he had had since seeing Mycroft for the first time. Thoughts no newly-separated man should be having, in his opinion.

“That’s good, “ said Mycroft. “Until tomorrow, Mr Lestrade.”

“Er, yes. Thank you. I, er, we, I, will see all of you tomorrow. First rehearsal, isn't it?”

“Indeed. I would come prepared for a very long day and for cocktail pitchers and bad karaoke at night. If you want the whole National experience, that is.”

Greg answered Mycroft’s now-mocking smile with one of his own.

“It can’t be any worse than an after-gig party with Motley Crue, Mr Holmes. Until tomorrow.”

Molly was grinning as she and Philip packed away their equipment.

“What's tickled you?” asked Greg sourly. 

“You and Mycroft Holmes. It can't be worse than a party with Motley Crue. Honestly, Greg, why didn't you just challenge him to a dick-measuring contest?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.” replied Greg huffily. “Bunch of drama queens, the lot of them.”

Molly's answering smile was a bit too knowing for Greg's liking. He declined the offer of a pint, claiming he needed an early night and got into his car.

Half an hour later found him in HMV in Oxford Street, sidling into the classical section, an area he had never visited before.

He flipped through the CD cases, Mycroft certainly had an impressive body of recorded work. Picking a few compilation discs, Greg paid for them and drove home.

The house was eerily quiet as he ran himself a bath and put on one of his newly purchased CDs.

As he wallowed in the steamy heat, Mycroft's voice issued from the speakers. Greg still had no clue what was being sung about but it was impressive nevertheless, even more so with a full orchestral backing. 

Then Greg heard it. Mycroft's aria. It was even more evocative and haunting than he could have believed and he remembered the emotion in Mycroft's face earlier that day when he had sung it.

“Iceman, my arse,” muttered Greg as he dried himself off and walked naked into the living room, switching off the CD player. “I wonder which is the real you, Mycroft Holmes. I wonder if anyone's ever got close enough to find out.”

Gleefully anticipating the next day, Greg went to bed.

TBC


	3. CABALETTA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft doesn't like it when someone flirts with Greg. And then there's cocktails and bad karaoke. Just how bad can it get?

CABALETTA

 

Def:- Brisk aria frequently inspiring the character to a course of impassioned action.

 

In ACD canon, Irene Adler was a contralto but for the purposes of this story, she's a soprano.

 

This is where it lives up to its E rating…

  
  
  


Greg arrived at the rehearsal rooms the next day ,well rested and smartly dressed, to find Philip adjusting his sound boom.

 

“Where's Molly?” he asked.

 

“Inside flirting with that pretty soprano from yesterday.” Philip looked at him with compassion.

 

“Look, Greg. Molly told me about you and Karen. I'm really sorry.”

 

“Thanks, Philip but it's been on the cards for a whole, to be honest. Neither of us had the guts to admit it.”

 

“I'm still sorry.”

 

Greg gave him a half-hearted grin. Happily married to Alice for nearly twenty years, Philip Anderson was the envy of many in the business.

 

“Life goes on, mate. We'd better get inside and see what's happening.”

  
  
  


Molly blushed slightly when she saw the two men, touched Stella lightly on the arm and murmured something to her which made the other woman smile. 

 

Sally Donovan, complete with clipboard, was hovering.

 

“Martha can spare you ten minutes. The wardrobe mistress.” she explained when she saw their look of bafflement. “Then Mycroft and Irene will be rehearsing the final act. After that, it's up to you guys.”

 

“Thank you, Sally.” said Greg.

 

“Now I have to rehearse too, so if you'll excuse me…” she hurried off.

  
  
  


The three of them found the wardrobe department and introduced themselves to the diminutive Martha Hudson. She was a natural in front of the camera.

 

“Turandot is always a bit of a sod.” she explained, her fingers busy hemming what looked like a silk robe. “With it being Oriental it can be terribly fiddly. Mind you, Mr Holmes and Miss Adler are a joy to dress, they very rarely need alterations done.”

 

She chatted on for a few more minutes till they were interrupted by three youngish men.

 

“Sorry, dears. They've come for a fitting. You'll have to excuse me.”

 

“Isn't she great?” enthused Greg. “That's exactly the kind of thing we want for…”

 

He stopped dead as the sound of a blazing argument wafted their way from the auditorium.

  
  
  


The majority of the chorus were cringing in the wings as Mycroft and a beautiful dark- haired woman, who Greg assumed to be Irene Adler, stood practically nose-to-nose, their expressions furious.

  
  
  


“Could you,” snarled Mycroft. “At least try and sing one note that isn't cracked?”

 

“Shut up, Mycroft. You're not exactly covering yourself in glory either. You're supposed to be in love with me! Right now you're acting like I'm something you trod on in the street. And for your information,” she poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “I have never cracked a note. And I can act better than you as well.”

 

“If you mean you can portray a man-hating shrew who would rather kill anyone instead of taking them to her bed then I don't see give there's any acting involved!” yelled Mycroft.

 

“Right, you two. That's enough!”

 

Sally Donovan barged onstage and physically separated the two leads.

 

“Go and cool off, the pair of you.”

 

When Mycroft and Irene opened their mouths to argue further, Sally glared at them.

 

“NOW!”

 

“Tell me you got all of that,” murmured Greg to Molly and Philip. 

 

“Every word.” they chorused.

 

“Brilliant.”

 

Just then Greg felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He was reading the e-mail when Mycroft came up to him.

 

“I'm so sorry you had to witness that. Dreadful woman. Dreadful.”

 

Mycroft looked closer and saw how pale Greg had gone.

 

“Mr Lestrade. Greg, if I may, are you all right?”

 

Greg looked at him, stricken.

 

“My wife left me. And now she's filing for divorce. I honestly never expected…”

 

He couldn't go on. There was a huge lump in his throat and the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself in front of Mycroft Holmes.

 

“My condolences. Had you been married long?”

 

“Five years. I'm sorry, Mycroft, I really don't want to talk about it.”

 

“I understand. Let me buy you a drink tonight. It may help lessen the pain.”

 

“Tonight?”

 

“Remember? Cocktail pitchers and bad karaoke. I did warn you.”

 

“Yes you did. We'll be there, don't worry.”

 

Greg was gifted with one of Mycroft's dazzling smiles which made him feel marginally better.

 

“Mycroft, stop monopolizing that poor man!” 

 

Mycroft grimaced as Irene Adler came strolling up to them.

 

When she wasn't yelling, she had a very pleasant voice and beautiful crystal blue eyes.

 

“You must be the BBC people Mycroft has been droning on about.” 

 

Mycroft walked away in disgust.

 

“I'm Irene Adler, so sorry we haven't met before.”

 

“Greg Lestrade. Lovely to meet you. This is Molly Hooper and Philip Anderson. “

 

She gave the other two a perfunctory nod before turning her attention back to Greg, a playful smile on her lips.

 

“How's it coming on?” she asked.

 

“It's going to be great,” Greg reassured her, starting slightly as she grasped his arm.

 

“I'm sure we're in the very best of hands,” she said, her eyes never leaving Greg's. He was used to being flirted with, it came with the territory and he was good at showing he wasn't interested, and this was particularly important this time as, if looks could have killed, Mycroft would have ensured the need for a replacement soprano. “Now, I must get on with rehearsal. Maybe I'll see you later “

 

It was a frank invitation that Greg replied to with a non-committal grunt.

 

Ten minutes of Irene knocking Turandot's aria out of the ballpark and they had enough footage for the day.

 

Greg drove his team back to the BBC to drop off the equipment and the film at the editing suite. Mike Stamford looked as happy as a sandboy at the prospect of more work.

 

“This is great stuff from all of you. What are they like to work with?” he asked.

 

“Well, the two leads hate each other and everyone else argues so much it's a wonder anything gets done. “replied Greg with a twinkle in his eye. Mike laughed. 

 

“Told you you'd enjoy it,” he said.

  
  
  


The pub where the National held their revels wasn't far from the rehearsal rooms. Greg had been there before but this was newly-refurbished and tastefully decorated. At the bar,he ordered a beer. Nothing too heavy, he needed to keep his wits about him. 

 

He recognised most of the faces there, and smiled to see Stella and Molly sitting together in a corner, completely oblivious to everyone else. He also saw Mycroft hadn't been kidding about the cocktails,though he wasn't sure about bad karaoke, even the most junior member of the chorus could out-sing anyone on The Voice any day of the week.

 

Greg chatted to a few people he had become acquainted with over the course of filming but the one person he wanted to see wasn't there, so he drank a little more beer than was wise and claimed a seat at the bar, listening to the operatic voices giving new life to old classics.

 

He was just about to order another beer when Mycroft walked in. A pale blue polo shirt showed off his freckled arms and the tiniest hint of chest hair. Even his jeans fitted him perfectly and Greg felt a wave of pure lust coursing through him. 

 

“I'm glad you made it,” smiled Mycroft. “Let's find a more comfortable seat.”

 

Greg found an empty table while Mycroft ordered at the bar for both of them, giving Greg lots of time to appreciate Mycroft's back view as well; a few filthy thoughts, aided by the drink, fluttered through his mind.

 

When Mycroft sat next to him, Greg smiled and they started talking. Light conversation mostly, family, mutual acquaintances, films and books. Mycroft was very easy to talk to which drew Greg to him even more. If this was going to be the sum of their friendship, Greg would count himself lucky.

 

“How are you feeling after today?” asked Mycroft eventually.

 

“I don't know,” said Greg truthfully. “Numb, I suppose.”

 

“I suppose you must be. Tell me, did your being bisexual have anything to do with the breakup?”

 

Greg choked on his beer. “How did you know I was bi? Am I wearing a badge?”

 

Mycroft smiled at him.

 

“It's very obvious to me, Greg. It's all in the eyes. Plus you haven't been able to stop looking at me since we met.”

 

“I'm sorry,” muttered Greg. “Please don't be offended. I do find you incredibly attractive.”

 

His eyes widened as one of Mycroft's hands closed over his on the table.

 

“I'm not offended, I'm highly flattered. When I saw you yesterday in that t-shirt it took all of my self-control to not drag you behind the nearest lockable door and fuck you till you forgot everything but my name.”

 

“Christ!” moaned Greg, half-hard at the very thought. 

 

“I can see that though appeals,” said Mycroft, cool as a cucumber.”Why don't you follow me?”

 

In a cubicle in the gents toilets, Greg found himself in Mycroft's arms, nudged up against the wall, the tiles cool against his back as they exchanged hard, biting kisses, Mycroft's beard rasping against the tender skin of Greg's throat. There was a prominent bulge in Mycroft's jeans and he moaned as Greg ran his palm over it en route to the fastening, reciprocating by unzipping Greg and easing his erection out. 

 

Greg gasped into Mycroft's neck as Mycroft wrapped his long fingers round their hardened cocks, gripping them firmly as he built up a rhythm that soon had Greg moaning aloud in spite of himself. Mycroft bit his lip as he concentrated, speeding up his strokes as he could feel his own orgasm building.

 

“I'm coming,” rasped Greg as his hips shot forward and he coated Mycroft's hand, just as Mycroft pulled him closer still and climaxed over Greg's stomach.

 

Breathless, he drew Greg into a sloppy kiss that almost split his lip in its ferocity.

 

“You and I will be incredible in bed,” he whispered as he tucked in his shirt  “ I can't wait to fuck you, Greg.”

 

Greg could only nod in reply, still high on endorphins and the rush of having sex where they could have been discovered at any time. He was sweaty and trembling and sank onto the actual toilet as Mycroft kissed him again, softly this time, and slipped out of the cubicle.

 

Greg couldn't face going back into the bar so he flagged down a taxi and went home, his emotions in turmoil.

 

He hadn't expected the night to end like that, but the hunger for more was already building inside him.

 

There was a light on in his house, one he was quite sure he hadn't left on earlier.

 

Karen was in the living room, seated on the sofa, and Greg was acutely aware that his shirt was buttoned up wrong and he had another man's come drying on his stomach.

 

“I thought you had moved out.” he said defensively. “Your lawyer certainly thinks so.”

 

“Sit down, Greg.” said Karen. “We really need to talk.”

 

TBC


	4. PESANTE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devastated by his wife's cruelty, Greg's work begins to suffer. He needs a balm for his broken heart but he might be looking in the wrong place.

PESANTE

 

Def: heavy and ponderous.

  
  
  


Greg sat in his favourite chair and waited.

 

“My lawyer was a bit premature.” began Karen. 

 

“Just a bit. Christ, Karen, you've only been gone five minutes. What the hell is going on?”

 

Karen looked at him sternly, annoyed at being interrupted.

 

“I want a divorce, Greg. And I want it as soon as possible.”

 

“Why?” sneered Greg. “Got a better offer, did you?”

 

“Don't make this harder than it has to be, Greg. I loved you once, but it just didn't work out. You deserve to be happy and so do I. Together we're just miserable.”

 

“Five years summed up in two sentences. Fuck’s sake. I thought there was a bit more to it than that.” Greg ran his hand distractedly through his hair.

 

“There wasn't.” she replied baldly. “I don't want anything from you, Greg. You can keep the house,the car, everything. I just want this to be over.”

 

“There's something you're not telling me,” Greg felt exhausted. Why was he trying to fight for something neither of them wanted any more?

 

Karen stood up, her hands clasped in front of her, a supercilious smirk in her face.

 

“You're right. You always could tell when I was holding something back. I'm pregnant.”

 

Greg recoiled as if he had been struck.

 

“Who's the father? It can't be mine, we haven't had sex in months.”

 

“No one you know,” she said. “And it's a viable pregnancy, I've had a scan. So someone else managed to do what you couldn't.” The cruelty in her voice was undeniable.

 

“That was a fucking low blow, Karen.”

 

She remained unmoved. 

 

“Go on, then. Leave.” he continued tiredly. “Get out. I never want to see you again. You've hurt me enough for a dozen lifetimes.”

 

“Goodbye, Greg. My lawyer will be in touch.”

 

As a final dramatic touch, she pulled off her wedding ring and let it drop on the coffee table. This time as she left, she slammed the door. It had the chilling air of finality.

 

Greg sat staring into space, stunned by both her revelations and her sheer venom. Had he wasted the last five years on a forlorn hope that things would get better? Was he much less of a man than the anonymous sperm donor? Was he less of a man in every respect? The simple act of her betrayal hurt more than anything. His heart felt like it had been gnawed on by rusty teeth.

 

He sat gripping the arm of his chair tightly for hours. Unmoving , unblinking **,** until he was claimed by sheer exhaustion.

  
  
  


Greg woke cramped and stiff with no clear idea of why he was in his armchair. He stood up, stretched and reached for his phone.

 

“Oh, fuck. “ he groaned when he saw both the time and the fact that he had fifteen missed calls, all from Molly.

 

Theorizing that the world could wait for once, Greg indulged himself in a scalding hot shower and made a pot of coffee, yawning as he sipped at the thick potent brew.

 

He picked up his phone and pressed Molly's number. It rang and rang until she answered breathlessly.

 

“Are you all right,” were her first words.

 

“Not really,” Greg replied. “Can you and Philip manage without me today? There's a couple of things I need to sort out and they really can't wait.”

 

Molly sounded worried as she said. 

 

“Yeah, it's mostly background stuff today, the road crew and whatnot. Look, Greg, are you sure you're okay? I've known you for years and I've never known you miss a day’s filming.”

 

“I'm not okay,” he admitted. “ It's Karen. I'll meet up with Mike at the studio and make my apologies.”

 

“Meet me for a drink later?” she asked.

 

“Okay, just text me where and when “

 

“Will do. Take care, Greg.”

 

He hung up, finished his coffee and made two more phone calls.  He was surprised that both the people he rang could accommodate him that day. Finally he rang a locksmith who agreed to come round in ten minutes, cash in hand, no questions asked.

 

His wallet considerably lighter and the new keys on his keyring, Greg went out. On the way, he picked up Karen's wedding ring and tossed it down the nearest drain without a qualm, swiftly following it with his own.

 

“Good riddance,” he muttered.

  
  
  


The doctor listened sympathetically as Greg explained.

 

“I've just found out that my soon-to-be- ex is cheating on me. I just want to make sure she didn't leave any nasty surprises.” ,he confessed.

 

“I can test for all the usual subjects; syphilis, gonorrhea and chlamydia. What about HIV?” asked the doctor.

 

“That too.” said Greg, darkly. “I thought I was in a monogamous relationship whereas she just wore knickers to keep her ankles warm “

 

“Okay, I'll need blood and a urine sample. Roll up your sleeve, Mr Lestrade. And then you can fill this for me.” He handed Greg a white specimen container.

 

Greg watched, fascinated, as his blood filled the tiny vials, and the doctor carefully labelled them.

 

“The results should be here in a day or two. In the meantime, try not to worry.”

 

Greg thanked him and hastened to his next appointment.

 

His solicitor was taken aback by Greg's request for a divorce but, once she had all the details, she told him she thought it would be relatively straightforward.

 

Feeling less heavy-hearted Greg made his way to the BBC4 studios where he apologised profusely to Mike Stamford.

 

“It’s fine, Greg,” Mike reassured him. “In all the years I've known you, I've never known you be anything but 100% professional. Christ, news like that would take the wind out of anyone's sails. If you need more time, just ask.”

 

“Thanks, Mike but I think the best thing for me is to keep busy.”

 

“Good man” smiled Like. “ The stuff you've got here is great. I'm thinking about stretching it to a two-parter. In fact, you could be looking at another BAFTA. Dame Judi has agreed to do the commentary, so I hope you're making headway on the script.”

 

“Yeah, I'm working in it.” lied Greg.

 

The two men watched some of the rough edit and Greg was enthralled by the crisp beauty of the photography and the sound.

 

“One more day should do it,” said Mike. “Then opening night at Glyndebourne. “

 

“ Molly and Philip have got some new stuff,” said Greg, “If we add that in with a touch of the dress rehearsal, that should be more than enough to work with.” 

 

As Mike was nodding his agreement, Greg's phone vibrated with a text.

 

MEET ME IN THE PITCHER AND PIANO. 7 O'CLOCK xx

 

“It’s from Molly. Fancy a pint tonight?” Greg asked.

 

“Nope. I'll be busy here till midnight. Have a good time,” said Mike.

  
  
  


The Pitcher and Piano was fairly quiet when Greg arrived and a quick scan of the room told him Molly wasn't there yet. He walked up to the bar and was just about to order himself a pint when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

 

“About time, “ he grumbled.” The Milky Bars are on you tonight, Molls. “

 

“I think I can do better than that,” replied a thoroughly amused voice. Greg turned to see Mycroft smiling at him.

 

“Miss Hooper sends her apologies but didn't think she'd be missed if I took her place.” said Mycroft.

 

Greg just stared, his jaw in the floor and his thoughts on fire.

 

“I believe you've had quite a day,” said Mycroft, steering Greg to a quiet table where they sat opposite each other.

 

“You could say that,” muttered Greg. “You're the best thing to happen to me today.”

 

“And today's not over yet,” smiled Mycroft. He scrutinised Greg, a frown marring his smooth brow.

 

“You look exhausted, Greg. When did you last eat?”

 

“I'm not sure,” confessed Greg and the frown deepened. 

 

“Let me take care of you,” offered Mycroft.

 

They ordered food and wine and chatted about trivial things till their order was in front of them. It took a fair amount of self-control for Greg not to inhale everything in front of him, he hadn't realised he was starving. Finally replete with a last glass of truly exceptional Merlot in his hand, he finally felt ready to talk.

 

Mycroft’s hand slid over his, the pad of his thumb rubbing over the indentation on Greg's finger that his wedding ring had left.

 

“Is there no hope of reconciliation?” asked Mycroft.

 

“Not after what she did,” said Greg darkly then squeezed Mycroft’s hand.

 

“And it's not really something I want to dwell on. Not when I'm here with you. Not after last night.”

 

“It was rather exquisite, wasn't it?” asked Mycroft, a flirtatious smile on his lips.

 

“That's one word for it,” sighed Greg. “ Hot as hell are another three.”

 

“Yes. It's not something I would have done under normal circumstances but there's something about you that I can't resist, Greg.”

 

“And what would you consider normal circumstances?” asked Greg.

 

Mycroft sat back in his chair, his gaze unwavering.

 

“I wouldn't even know your name.”

 

Greg's surprise must have shown on his face, for Mycroft looked rueful.

 

“I have no time for romantic entanglements. I have loved before and lost, I have no need for that kind of heartbreak. Now I keep all my emotion for my singing. Grindr has become my app of choice whenever I feel the need to fuck. And then you stumble into my life, dishevelled and hurting, almost broken by someone who you thought would love you forever and I find I can't keep my thoughts or my hands off you. And I also find I don't want to.”

 

“Wow!” huffed Greg. “That's quite a revelation. I think I'm flattered.”

 

“You'll be finished with the National in a couple of days,” said Mycroft seriously. “And in a month, we're off to America touring. I'll be yours for that month if you want me. What do you think?”

 

“I don't want to think,” said Greg, his voice dropping to a seductive purr. “I want to feel. Come home with me, Mycroft. I want to see the iceman melt.”

 

“Christ,” moaned Mycroft. “The things I want to do to you…”

 

Greg stood up, his eyes dark with desire and invitation.

 

“Show me.”

 

TBC 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a sod to write, but I'll hopefully be updating, and finishing soon. For everyone who's liked and commented so far, bless you.


	5. Affettuoso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month might not be long enough for Greg if what happens when he takes Mycroft home is any indication.

AFFETTUOSO

 

Def: With tenderness and affection.

 

They stumbled through the front door of Greg's house and everything,  though familiar, seemed to have an unreal tinge.

 

Greg drew Mycroft down onto the sofa and held him close, trading soft sweet kisses that lacked the ferocity of their previous encounter but were no less effective in stirring Greg to even more impassioned heights, his fingers fumbling with Mycroft's shirt buttons, desperate to see, touch and taste. 

 

If he'd considered it, the place where he had had his heart stomped on wasn't really the perfect spot for seduction but that thought never occurred as he slid Mycroft's silk underwear off so they were both naked.

 

Greg took a minute to appreciate the beauty in front of him: tousled red hair, the erotic flush that very pale-skinned people often develop when aroused prevalent on his freckle-dusted skin and  his thick cock risen like an exclamation mark from a nest of curls that were every shade of autumn.

 

Mycroft smiled with kiss-crushed lips as he drew Greg to him.

 

“How delicious you are, “ he whispered as his hand slid over Greg's chest, down over his twitching stomach muscles to run a long finger along the ridge of Greg's erection, making Greg moan softly.

 

“Tell me what you want, Greg.”

 

“I want you to take me to bed and fuck me. I want to feel you inside me and watch you fall apart when you come.”

 

“Oh…” was all Mycroft could think of to say to that as Greg took his hand and led him to his bedroom.

 

All Greg had wanted was to feel, and here his need was fulfilled in abundance. The soft pillow under his hips; the skin of Mycroft's waist as he wrapped his legs tightly around him, the sensation of being filled completely, sweat and lube easing Mycroft into him like it was where he belonged, feeling desired, feeling cherished, every thrust bringing him closer to completion, the feral noises issuing from Mycroft's throat enhancing every second.

 

Greg saw the storm clouds begin to gather in Mycroft's eyes and knew he was close, heard his name groaned out through gritted teeth and whispered.

 

“Come for me, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft's back arched as his head dipped back and he cried out, a broken sound that was enough to tip Greg over the edge, his own orgasm coursing through him, obliterating everything in white-hot pleasure.

 

When he returned to himself, Mycroft was in his arms, his beard tickling as he nuzzled Greg's neck.

 

“You were amazing,” whispered Mycroft wonderingly. 

 

“This is going to be an incredible month,” smiled Greg as they clung to each other.

  
  


They arrived at the rehearsal rooms together the next morning,  Mycroft squeezed Greg's arm before vanishing in the direction of the wardrobe department.

 

Molly's grin threatened to split her face in two and Greg blushed furiously.

 

“I take it everything went well last night?” she enquired.

 

“You could say that,”replied Greg, smiling in spite of himself. “

 

“What went well?” asked Philip curiously.

 

“Thanks for standing me up,” laughed Greg and Molly's dimples flashed again as she laughed as well.”Any time.”

 

“I'm missing something, aren't I?” frowned Philip.

 

“Never mind, mate. I doubt you would approve,” said Greg. “Last day today, Mike wants rehearsal and reactions, so we'd better get in there.”

 

The atmosphere couldn't have been more different. Instead of the usual good-natured abuse and horseplay, everyone was tightly focused, every move performed with pinpoint precision until a deep hush fell over everyone and Mycroft stepped on stage.

 

He should have looked ridiculous dressed as an Oriental nobleman, being so tall and fair, yet he exuded nobility and confidence and Greg's gaze was riveted to him as he gracefully moved to centre stage and began to sing.

 

Everyone knew the World Cup Aria, but Mycroft's version took Greg's breath away. He watched the others as “Nessun Dorma” thundered from the stage to find Molly and Philip equally spellbound, then listened, losing himself in the beauty of Mycroft's voice all over again.

 

When Mycroft finished, the applause was thunderous,  then Sally was onstage marshalling her performers for the next scene.

 

“Backstage, I think.” muttered Greg to the other two. “I doubt we'll be able to top that.”

 

“You're right,” agreed Philip as he retracted his sound boom. “That was flawless.”

 

Molly nodded in agreement.

 

“You can see why he's the best. The cast might not love him very much, but you can't argue with a performance like that.”

 

“And what about Stella?” teased Greg  as they made their way backstage. “Does she dislike him?”

 

“She adores him.” Molly corrected him. “She says he's an incredible teacher, he's really helped her with her projection. She could be looking at a second soprano position soon.”

 

“Good for her. So it's going well then? You and her?”

 

“Really well. Just think, if you hadn't agreed to this, Greg, Stella and I would never have met. I think we owe Mike a bottle of Glenmorangie at the very least.”

 

“Something like that,” agreed Greg. 

 

Backstage the three of them were caught up in the atmosphere of a rehearsal gone well. 

 

Greg spotted Irene Adler talking to a tall, handsome man with dark hair. She smiled at Greg and beckoned him over.

 

“Mr Lestrade, how lovely to see you again. Everything is going well, don't you think?”

 

“Yeah, it's great. We've got some excellent footage. I'm sorry, “ said Greg to the other man who was looking at him, slightly bemused. “I'm Greg Lestrade. I don't think we've met.”

 

“The famous producer. I know your work, Mr Lestrade. “

 

Greg was surprised, he wasn't used to people knowing his name outside his work circle. 

 

“Godfrey Norton. Yeah, my parents had this whole Victorian thing going on when I was born.” he said, clearly understanding Greg's surprised look as they shook hands.

 

“What's your connection to the National?” asked Greg.

 

“Apart from being married to Irene here? None at all. I'm a lawyer, but I always like to come to her dress rehearsals if I can.”

 

“Oh,  right.” Greg couldn't think of anything to say to that. 

 

Irene’s smile made her eyes crinkle as she grasped her husband's arm.

 

“Greg and his team have been just wonderful, darling. We hardly knew they were there. I'm really looking forward to seeing it on screen.”

 

Then her expression changed, curdled and she frowned. Turning, Greg saw Mycroft making a beeline for them. 

 

“Just as long as you don't turn it into the Mycroft Holmes Show, Greg.” she muttered.

 

“There's no chance of that,” he protested. “I have to ask though. Why do you two hate each other?”

 

Godfrey laughed and shook his head. Irene didn't seem annoyed by the question, she just smiled.

 

“We don't. It's just professional jealousy. In fact if this wasn't such a cutthroat business we'd probably be friends but we're far too much alike in that there is very little that can compete with opera. I got lucky with my husband, Mycroft never found anyone to measure up. Just be careful you don't end up as collateral damage, Greg. “

 

“Thanks, I think.” said Greg as Mycroft gave a curt nod to the departing Nortons before bestowing a salacious smile on Greg.

 

“I thought we could have dinner,” said Mycroft. “ There's a lovely Greek place not far from here.”

 

“Sounds great,” agreed Greg, who was starving.

 

“Then if you're amenable, I'd like to take you to my place for the night.”

 

“Sounds even better,” smiled Greg.

 

Mycroft closed the gap between them, running his hand down Greg's arm.

 

“Twenty seven days, Greg. Let’s not waste a second.”

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Godfrey Norton is indeed the husband of Irene Adler in ACD canon. It was nice to include him here. 
> 
> I feel as though I've been typing this with one thumb, now I'm feeling a bit better I may update faster.


	6. DOLCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What really holds Mycroft's heart? Greg might be in for a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty PWP. For Bryn and lmirandas, here be the piano scene.

DOLCE

 

Def:Sweetly.

 

Mycroft lived in an large flat overlooking Regents Park. He ushered Greg through the front door and hung their coats up as Greg looked around in awe.

 

The whole place was floored out in pale wood, soothing pastel tones covered the walls and the living room, where Mycroft poured brandy for both of them from a beautiful Waterford decanter, was dominated by a baby grand piano.

 

“This is a first,” said Mycroft as they sat close together on his sofa. It could have comfortably seated half a dozen people but Greg liked that Mycroft wanted to be close to him.

 

“What is?” asked Greg, his attention captured by a group of photographs on the mantelpiece on the far wall. 

 

“I've never brought someone here before,” admitted Mycroft. “You're the first.”

 

“I'm honoured,” said Greg seriously. “It's quite a place. You've got quite an eye for interior design. I know a few people who'd give their left arm to film in a location like this.”

 

Mycroft chuckled and pulled Greg to his feet.

 

“I had no hand in any of this. It's all down to my little brother. Oh, and his children. Here.”

 

He drew Greg over to the mantelpiece where the photographs were. They were of studio quality, all of them, and reminded Greg of some of the work Molly had done before finding her vocation behind a film camera.

 

Mycroft pointed to the furthest picture on the left.

 

“My brother, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock was a tall, slender man with dark curls and high cheekbones. In one hand he clutched a violin and in the other, a bow. He was ridiculously attractive especially dressed in a designer suit.

 

“That was taken when he became first violin and leader of the orchestra.”

 

The evident pride in Mycroft's voice convinced Greg that that was a good thing.

 

The next picture was a wedding; suits, smiles and confetti. Sherlock again, alight with happiness, gazing lovingly at his new husband, a smaller man with greying fair hair and intense blue eyes.

 

“John Watson. Head of Trauma at St Thomas's hospital.”

 

“They seem very happy, “ ventured Greg.

 

“They are. And they try not to disapprove too much of their brother's chaotic lifestyle. And these are their children “

 

There was a wonderful tender note in Mycroft's voice. The photo was a family group, Sherlock and John casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts with their arms around two beautiful young children.

 

“Trinity and Leo. Trinity is five and her brother is a year younger.”

 

“Gorgeous kids,” agreed Greg and he wasn't being polite, Trinity had incredible dark eyes and a beautiful smile that would cause her parents a few sleepless nights when she was older. In contrast her brother was blond with green eyes and the happy grin of a small boy who is content merely because the people he loves are beside him.

 

“I just left everything to Sherlock. He gets bored when the orchestra is on a break. Trinity wanted me to get a dog and Leo asked if they could have a sandpit,  but we managed to talk them out of it.”

 

“You seem close,” said Greg with a touch of envy.  Being an only child had had it's advantages but he sometimes wondered what it would have been like to have a sibling.

 

“There isn't anything I wouldn't do for them. Any of them.” said Mycroft firmly.

 

Greg sipped at his brandy, the spirit warming him even more. He had wondered what Mycroft held most dear,  here was the proof of the man's heart. Here in this room, with its subdued lighting and happy family photos, was the real Mycroft Holmes. The caring brother and uncle, a place where he could practice his art undisturbed. No wonder he had never brought anyone casual here.

 

So what did that make him?, Greg wondered.

 

He finished his brandy and took a most willing Mycroft in his arms.

 

“How about a tour of the rest?” he asked.

 

“This is like the start of a very bad porn film,” huffed Mycroft as he held Greg close. “You're here to deliver a parcel and your all “Nice apartment, I bet the bedrooms are huge, why don't you show me?” 

 

Greg giggled as he leaned in for a kiss, a sound that made Mycroft smile.

 

“You really need to watch better porn, Mycroft.” he said.

 

“Not when I've got the real thing here with me now. Let's go to bed, Greg. See if our version is better.”

  
  


It was. Greg lay afterwards in Mycroft's bed, glowing with pleasure. Mycroft himself looked almost pornographic in that minute, sultry-eyed and breathless, his pale skin a delightful contrast to the sage-green bedding; as tempting as freshly-grown mushrooms on a dew-drenched field. Wordlessly he drew Greg to him and Greg's last conscious thought was of how well they fit together.

 

The next morning Greg awoke, bleary-eyed and briefly unsure of where he was. The bed was empty but the sheets were still warm, a sure sign Mycroft wasn't far away. The whole place was awash with glorious music. 

 

Greg found his underwear with some difficulty and went looking for the source of such beautiful music.

 

He found Mycroft at the piano clad only in a thin silk dressing gown. His long fingers caressed the keys expertly, his eyes closed in rapture as Greg stared his fill, struck again at how amazingly talented this man was. Until he hit a wrong note and the spell was broken.

 

“Bollocks!” yelled Mycroft, frowning at the instrument as if it had personally offended him.

 

“Don't stop just because you hit a bum note!” protested Greg.

 

Mycroft looked round with a rueful smile.

 

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. It's just...this is something I do every morning when I'm home. It's second nature, like brushing your teeth.”

 

“I'm not complaining,” said Greg. “Everyone should be lucky enough to get woken like this at least once in their life.”

 

He moved closer, resting his hands on Mycroft's silk-clad shoulders and breathed in the smell of him, remnants of his cologne and the faint trace of sex were enough to make Greg's nostrils flare as he bent down to kiss him. Mycroft's arms slid round his neck as Greg landed in his lap.

 

“You make me feel like I'm seventeen again,” murmured Greg as he took Mycroft’s earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently. “I can't get enough of you.” 

 

“Clearly,” smiled Mycroft as his hand ghosted over the tented elastic of Greg's boxers. “If it helps, you have the same effect on me.”

 

Greg unfastened the belt of Mycroft's dressing gown, pushing the material aside, laying him bare. He slid off Mycroft's lap to the wooden floor, parting Mycroft's thighs with his hand.

 

“Let me…” he entreated. 

 

Mycroft's soft groan of anticipation and his hand on the back of Greg's head were his only response as Greg set to taking him apart with his hands and his mouth, never losing eye contact with the man sprawled helplessly against the piano keyboard. The noises Mycroft made as Greg swallowed around his length were nearly as beautiful as the ones he had made on the piano, rising in volume as Greg continued his ministrations until he felt Mycroft erupt against his palate. 

 

Gasping, Mycroft pulled Greg's head against his stomach as he recovered, easing Greg back into his lap again so he could kiss him, the salty sweet taste of his own come fresh on Greg's tongue.

 

Greg turned so he was flush against Mycroft's body,rocking his hips to gain friction against his own erection but Mycroft grasped him firmly and with a few firm strokes Greg came with a deep cry, spilling over Mycroft's hand and stomach.

 

“You are incredible,” said Mycroft before leading Greg to the bathroom and the delights of a two-person shower.

 

“I'll have to go soon.” said Greg regretfully, as they drank coffee later in Mycroft's kitchen. “Got to make a start on the voiceover script.”

 

“And I'm due in a meeting with Ms Donovan in an hour,” replied Mycroft. “Will I see you later?”

 

Greg looked surprised.  “Yeah, I haven't got anything planned.”

 

Mycroft looked pleased. 

 

“I'll ring you later then.”

 

They kissed goodbye at the front door and Greg watched the tall, elegant figure of his lover disappear towards Covent Garden.

 

He felt euphoric but at the same time he felt a deep air of disquiet.

 

Saying goodbye to Mycroft Holmes might be the hardest thing he would ever have to do.

 

TBC


	7. Con Amore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love comes in all shapes and sizes, sometimes where you least expect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter this time. There was no way I could split it without losing some of the momentum.

CON AMORE

 

Def: with love.

 

Greg was busy in the editing suite trying to concentrate on scripting a very rough edit of the documentary, but it was no use. 

 

The letter from Karen's solicitor lay on the mixing desk, its bland whiteness almost accusatory in the subdued lighting. 

 

He heard a door open, then a coffee mug slid into view, swiftly followed by a newspaper. He turned to see Molly grinning at him.

 

“I thought you could probably use that by now,” she said, indicating the coffee.

 

“You're a lifesaver, “ sighed Greg, wrapping his hands round the hot mug.

 

“You're in the paper,” said Molly. “But I don't think it'll be one for the scrapbook.”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Greg, picking it up. He grimaced when he saw it was The Scorpion. Molly was a Guardian reader through and through, something must have caught her attention.

 

“The so-called entertainment news,” she went on as he riffled through it.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! “ he snarled as he saw what she was talking about.

 

It was a picture of him and Mycroft, shot when they were leaving the restaurant a couple of nights ago. His face wasn't too clear but the expression on their faces and the way they were looking at each other made it pretty obvious that it hadn't been a business dinner.

 

“Listen to this,” said Greg. “Feisty opera star Mycroft Holmes may have finally found something more fascinating than musical notation as he is seen yet again in the company of award-winning silver fox director Greg Lestrade.”

 

Furious, he crumpled the paper and threw it in the bin.

 

“Mycroft will do his nut,” he groaned.

 

“I doubt he'll even see it,” soothed Molly. “And even if he does, where's the harm? It's not like you're doing anything wrong.”

 

“I know we're not but we're only together till Mycroft goes to America. Another two and a half weeks. I don't want this to reflect badly on him.”

 

Molly looked confused and he tried to clarify it for her.

 

“It's just a fling, Molly. Nothing serious. He's helping me remember that I'm actually capable of romance instead of being just a sperm donor. Or the oblivious husband. I mean, I had literally just separated from Karen. My head’ s in no shape for a relationship.”

 

“That's too bad. You seem so much more...I dunno...together since you and Mycroft started seeing each other.”

 

Greg shrugged. “It suits us both.”

 

“Are you seeing him this weekend?”

 

“Can't,  I'm afraid. Thanks to my bitch of a soon-to-be ex.”

 

He gestured to the lawyer's letter. Molly unfolded it and frowned as she read the contents.

 

“Everything?” she asked.

 

“Yup. I've already hired a storage unit for all her shit but it'll probably take all weekend to sort it. I'm sure she doesn't even want half of it, but if it makes getting rid of her for good easier, I'll do it.”

 

Molly squeezed his shoulder in silent sympathy and left him to it.

  
  
  


Greg was brooding in his kitchen over his third cup of coffee that Saturday morning when his doorbell rang.

 

“Go away! “ he grumbled. The last thing he needed right now were interruptions, but his visitor was persistent 

 

Muttering to himself he threw open the front door fully intending to tell the Jehovah's Witnesses to go fuck themselves only to find Molly and Stella on his doorstep.

 

“We've come to help,” said Molly.

 

“Molly told me what had happened, Greg.” said Stella, shyly. “We're here to do what we can.”

 

“You didn't have to do that!” he exclaimed, standing aside to let them in. “But I appreciate the help.”

 

“Where should we start?” asked Stella.

 

“Upstairs, I think.” replied Greg. “Then we can work downwards. Got bags and boxes up there and there's more in the cupboard if we need them.”

 

“Right,” said Molly, stripping off her jacket. “Let's get cracking.”

 

What would have been a prolonged period of unearthing painful memories was made considerably easier by the addition of Molly and Stella as they helped him unpack wardrobes, storage boxes and the chest of drawers. He slipped London Calling on the CD player as they worked.  Molly rolled her eyes but Stella got very enthusiastic.

 

“I love The Clash!” she exclaimed and proceeded to sing along to every track. Greg had to admit, Lost In The Supermarket gained a certain ethereal beauty when sung by a trained soprano.

 

Molly borrowed Greg's car and went to fetch lunch for them all after despairing at the contents of his kitchen cupboards while Greg brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

 

He had never been alone with Stella before but there was no sense of awkwardness. Instead they chatted about trivial stuff and Greg, finding they had a lot of shared interests, warmed to her even more. He would have loved her anyway for making one of his best friends so happy but he was genuinely pleased to find that he actually liked her. They were reminiscing about Monty Python when Molly returned, the scent of vinegar and fried food preceding her.

 

“Fish and chips,” she announced, dumping the bag on the bench. “Dig in.”

 

They stopped work late afternoon, Stella apologised but she had to go for a fitting.

 

“I'll see you later,” she said to Molly, kissing her goodbye. “See you tomorrow, Greg.” 

 

“Thanks for all your help, Stella “ he replied.

 

“Fancy a beer?” he asked Molly.

 

“We should really carry on.” though she sounded like she could be persuaded.

 

“Come on, Molly. We've done more than enough for one day. If it hadn't been for you two I'd probably be sitting upstairs with my wedding album in my lap, crying and wondering where I went wrong. We can finish it tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, you're right. Got any Guinness?”

 

They sat companionably on his sofa while Greg flicked through the tv channels.

 

“Ice Road Truckers is on. Fancy it?”

 

Molly nodded, they clinked bottles and settled down to watch.

 

Molly and Stella both returned the next day to help him finish packing up Karen's stuff and loading it into his car. It took three trips to the storage unit to shift everything but he closed the door on it with a deep sense of satisfaction. He put the unit key where he'd remember to drop it off at her solicitors the next day and insisted on taking the girls to lunch, hugging them both in gratitude afterwards.

 

Greg watched Molly and Stella walk away, their hands brushing each others and felt inexplicably sad. The chiming of his mobile interrupted his thoughts. His heart leapt when he saw it was Mycroft.

 

“Hi,” said Greg, smiling.

 

“How are you getting on with the packing?”

 

“All done, Molly and Stella came by and helped.”

 

“So you're free tonight?”

 

“Yes, what did you have in mind?” asked Greg flirtatiously.

 

“That certainly,” laughed Mycroft. “But dinner first. There's a wonderful new Italian place opened near me, you'll love it.”

 

“Sounds great. What time?”

 

“I've got the children till six o'clock. If you come by at seven, that will be perfect.”

 

“I'll see you then. Have fun with the kids.”

 

With a theatrical groan, Mycroft hung up.

  
  
  


Greg arrived at Mycroft's place at seven precisely. He hoped his new suit would be smart enough for where they were going, though he wasn't sure about the tie. He rang the doorbell and waited. It was answered by a pretty girl with red ribbons in her hair. Green splotches of paint stood out vividly on her dark skin.

 

“You're not my Daddy,” she said, staring up at him mistrustfully. She looked back and yelled. “Uncle Mikey! There's a man!”

 

Mycroft appeared looking frazzled with a small boy in his arms.

 

“Trinity, how many times have I told you not to open that door! “ he said. He looked at Greg apologetically. “Come in, please.”

 

Mycroft put the boy down on the floor where he looked at Greg curiously, his thumb firmly lodged in his mouth.

 

“Who are you?” asked Trinity.

 

Greg knelt down so he didn't loom. 

 

“My name's Greg. I'm a friend of your uncle's. You must be Trinity.”

 

“And that's my brother Leo. My Daddy is going to be here soon.”

 

“That's nice. I expect you want to go home.”

 

“I like it here but Uncle Mikey can't draw. I like to draw. Can you?”

 

“As a matter of fact, I can” smiled Greg. “Did you bring your art stuff?”

 

“Uh huh. It's over here.C’mon Leo.”

 

Trinity led the way to Mycroft's normally pristine dining table which was covered in paper and paint. As he sat down with a curious child on either side of him, Mycroft muttered in his ear.

 

“I'm so sorry about this. Sherlock is in Tokyo and John promised he'd be here by six. And he's not answering his phone.”

 

“Don't fret, “  said Greg. He looked at the children. “What do you want me to draw?”

 

“You need to be in the gang first,” said Leo just as Trinity dabbed his forehead with a paintbrush. “There.”

 

Greg ignored Mycroft's horrified gasp and picked up a pencil. He looked at Trinity.

 

“I know you like dogs. Would you like me to draw you one?”

 

She clapped her hands excitedly and nodded.

 

Greg was very rusty but managed to produce a reasonable picture of a fluffy hound. Trinity was ecstatic.

 

Leo leaned closer as Greg looked at him.

 

“I like Nellyfants.” he announced.

 

“Okay, one elephant coming up.” Greg drew it without lifting the pencil from the paper which evoked cries of wonder from both of them.

 

“Again.” commanded Leo, and Greg obliged. 

 

“Look, Nitty! Two nellyfants!” said Leo triumphantly. Greg could guess what was coming and hastily drew a small canine companion for Trinity’s dog which made her smile.

 

“Thank you,” she said, clutching the paper to her. “I like doggies.”

 

“Thank Christ!” groaned Mycroft as the doorbell sounded again.

 

“Daddy!” chorused the children scrambling to their feet as Mycroft opened his door to admit a man Greg recognised, though he was considerably less formal in jeans and a fisherman's sweater.

 

“Hello, darlings,” smiled John Watson, scooping his family up into his arms as they hugged him. He looked apologetically at Mycroft.

 

“I am so sorry, “ he said.”There was a five-car pileup on the M25. I just couldn't get away.”

 

“It's fine, John.” Mycroft assured him. “I love having them over.”

 

“Did you know you're daubed with green paint?” asked John.

 

“You've got to be in the Green Dot Gang,” smiled Mycroft.  “Get your things, you two. Time to go.”

 

The children obediently gathered up their things and put on their jackets. Leo brandished Greg's picture at his father.

 

“Look, Daddy. Nellyfants! “

 

“So they are. Who drew them?”

 

“Greg did, Daddy. He drew me some doggies too.” chimed in Trinity.

 

Greg, who had been trying to fade into the background, grinned weakly as John’s blue gaze came to rest on him. Greg could almost feel the disapproval radiating off him.

 

“Let's go,” he said abruptly. 

 

“Bye bye Uncle Mikey,” they said in unison, bestowing a hug and a sloppy kiss on Mycroft. “Bye bye Greg.” they added and waved as they were ushered out of the door.

 

Mycroft looked distracted, running his fingers through his already untidy hair.

 

“We'll miss our reservation,” he groaned. “And I'm not even dressed yet!”

 

Greg raised his hands in a calming gesture.

 

“Relax, Mycroft. You've had a bit of a day of it. Look, why don't we just get a takeaway,  stay in and watch telly? Seems to me those two would wear anyone out.”

 

“You were brilliant with them.” said Mycroft admiringly. “I can't understand John though. He's normally extremely  courteous. That was bloody rude.”

 

“I can. He doesn't want them getting attached to people that won't always be in their lives. Single parents have that kind of dilemma every day.”

 

Mycroft frowned as he grabbed a cloth to wipe the kitchen table down.

 

“It was still unforgivably rude.” he fumed.

 

Greg took his hand and smiled.

 

“It doesn't matter. Now what do you fancy? Chinese? Thai?.”

 

“You pick.” said Mycroft.

 

They ate from the containers and drank wine from lemonade glasses then stretched out on the sofa, Greg's head resting on Mycroft's chest, Mycroft's hand stroking his hair. The film they were watching ended and by unspoken consent they went to bed where they made slow, tender love.

 

Afterwards Mycroft slept, but Greg lay awake watching him, wishing for the ability to stop time or rewind it.

 

Realisation hit him like a ton of bricks.

 

“Oh, Greg.” he whispered in the dark. “You fucking idiot.”

 

TBC

  
  



	8. Lacrimoso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of their month, but is this the perfect way to say goodbye?

LACRIMOSO

 

Def: Tearfully.

 

Greg had never known two weeks pass so quickly. 

 

True, work had kept him occupied but it wasn't enough to distract him from the fact that Mycroft was leaving him. 

 

Greg had been there at Mycroft's flat when the courier had delivered the airline tickets. He had tried to hide his dismay but he didn't think he'd been entirely successful judging by the quizzical expression on Mycroft's face. 

 

Stay with me, he had wanted to scream. I don't want this to be over. 

 

Of course, he had said nothing of the sort but he had held on so tight and so long to Mycroft in bed that night.

 

The next day, he received a phone call. It was his GP, genially flustered. Greg had completely forgotten about the tests he had had done.

 

“You're a hard man to track down, Mr Lestrade.”

 

“I'm sorry, Dr Wilson. I've been really busy.” He gripped his phone tightly.

 

“Its okay. Good news, all your tests were negative.”

 

Greg felt light-headed with relief. He and Mycroft had always practised safe sex, but it was still a weight off his mind.

 

“Thanks for that.” he concluded and hung up.

  
  
  


Now the cursed day had arrived.  Greg and Mycroft had dinner in their favourite restaurant, then champagne cocktails at The Ritz, not speaking much, content to be together though Greg thought his heart might burst with the weight of all he wanted to say.

 

“Tell me about your aria.” said Greg. “I've been curious since the first time I heard you sing it.”

 

Mycroft looked surprised, then smiled, gesturing to the waiter for another round. When their drinks had been refreshed, Mycroft looked at Greg over his steepled fingers, his eyes alight with enthusiasm.

 

“It comes from the last act of Tosca,” he explained. “ The painter Cavaradossi is about to be executed by firing squad. In that time, just before the sunrise, he remembers the one perfect moment with his lover. It's very poignant.”

 

“Then what happens?” asked Greg.

 

“He gets executed and his lover kills herself by jumping off the roof.” said Mycroft flatly. 

 

“Are there any operas with happy endings?” 

 

“Not many,” conceded Mycroft. “Even the last part of Turandot is pure fanfiction. I think that's enough shop talk for one night, don't you? Take me to bed, Greg. Let's make our last few hours together happy ones.”

 

Greg took Mycroft to his house, unnaturally tidy as it was and sparse now that every trace of Karen had been removed, took him to the bedroom and undressed him slowly, his hands caressing every inch of skin as it was gloriously revealed, desperate to commit everything to memory and getting lost in the heat of it.

 

He moved deep inside Mycroft, making him cry out, making him whimper and clutch at the sheets as he was wracked with pleasure, Greg's name the only word he knew, his orgasm sending him into a deep spiral of ecstasy, mourned for its swiftness in passing.

 

“Mycroft, I…”

 

Mycroft clapped a sweaty hand over Greg's mouth.

 

“No! “ he exclaimed. “Don't say anything you'll regret. I'll be gone tomorrow. That was the deal. Your wife left you not knowing which way is up, Greg. Your emotions are selling you a dummy. You and I have had an incredible month and I can honestly say you were the most amazing fuck I've ever had, but you have to let me go.”

 

Greg gave a huge watery sigh. He knew Mycroft was right, but that didn't mean he had to like it. 

 

“I'm going to miss you,” he ventured.

 

“Come here,” whispered Mycroft, sliding his hand tantalizingly up Greg's thigh.

 

And then it was over. Greg dropped Mycroft off at his flat very early the next morning. There was no awkwardness in their goodbyes, no lingering resentment in their final kiss. Greg drove straight to work and hid in the editing suite. Dame Judi was due in that morning for her voiceover rehearsal and he drank the coffee pot dry trying to mitigate his hangover and the awful feeling that he had just let the best thing that ever happened to him get away.

 

His laptop was open showing the Arrivals board at Newark. He promised that once Mycroft's flight had landed, he would switch it off.

  
  
  


Somewhere over the Atlantic

 

“Mr Holmes, can I get you anything else?” The stewardess was thrilled to be assigned to first-class. She was a huge opera fan and an even bigger fan of the tenor.

 

Maybe he didn't like flying, she thought. All he had done since boarding at Heathrow was stare out of the window with an expression of frozen misery on his face. Very polite when he did speak, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. 

 

“No, thank you.” he said and returned to his vigil. 

  
  
  


Two days later, Greg was going quietly insane. The documentary, provisionally titled “Tantrums and Turandot” was complete, just a few scenes from Glyndebourne were left to shoot. Molly and Philip had both been headhunted for new projects and Greg was at a loose end. The drizzly cold weather was doing nothing for his spirits and he was thoroughly fed up with London.

 

He walked into Mike's office without knocking.

 

“I'm taking some time off.” he announced. “I need a holiday.”

 

“Good. I was thinking of kidnapping you and sticking you on the first available flight out of here. Go. There won't be anything to do round here till the National documentary is finished. Just get back in time for the opening night.” said Mike without looking up from his laptop.

 

Greg went home and threw some things in a suitcase. Ten minutes online got him a flight that afternoon and a rental apartment for two weeks in the Canaries. He picked up his passport and went out to flag down a taxi.

 

Fuerteventura turned out to be a balm to his soul. Greg spent his days on the beach soaking up the spring sunshine, his skin turning golden brown or swimming in the sea. He spent his evenings in the bars and restaurants of the Old Town, watching the people, tourists and locals alike. The light had an unreal quality to it and he thought how he'd like to come back here and film one day with the right project.

 

He socialised with no one and went back to his apartment alone every night, thankful to be sleeping in a bed that didn't smell of Mycroft.

 

By the end of the two weeks he felt better. Calmer. Much more like the man he used to be before his world had pretty much ended. He had had the rest he needed and plenty of time to think. He would no doubt bump into Mycroft in the next week during the festival where he would view him with affection and as a very pleasant memory.

 

At the airport he picked up the first English newspaper he had seen in a fortnight and flipped through it. It was full of the usual gloom and doom till he got to the entertainment section.

 

The headline screamed at him and the text made all his new-won resolution slide away like rain on glass.

 

NATIONAL OPERA WOWS AUDIENCES WITH STELLAR PERFORMANCE.

 

...Special mention must be made of Mycroft Holmes’s Catalf. Here is a man at the top of his game. He has left audiences speechless with the power of his performance, far exceeding all expectations. He puts everything into his arias and makes them perfect…

 

_ One cannot sing this aria with any kind of competency until they have had their heart broken. _

 

The paper drifted from Greg's nerveless fingers.

 

“Mycroft…” he whispered.

  
  


TBC


	9. Risoluto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg knows he'll have to see Mycroft again, but will it be the last time? Finally complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has liked and commented on this. I'm behind in my replies but I'll get there. For now, enjoy the last act.

RISOLUTO

 

Def: Resolved. Decisive.

 

Greg had only been home a day when he got a phone call from Molly.

 

“Hi! “ he exclaimed. “Are you done with the Scotland shoot?”

 

“Yes, just finished yesterday. Why don't you come round to mine tonight for dinner? It's been ages since I saw you.”

 

“One condition. Will you make shepherd's pie?”

 

“You know me too well, Greg. And bread and butter pudding. Seven o'clock. Bring beer.”

 

“I'll be there.” he assured her and hung up. 

 

Greg spent the rest of the day catching up with email that had accumulated in his absence, marking possible new projects to be read later and deleting everything else. 

 

By the time he was done, it was six o'clock and his stomach was growling. He showered and changed and arrived at Molly's punctually with a carrier bag loaded with craft beer and a bottle of Canarian honey rum for Molly which he knew she adored.

 

He was a little taken aback when Stella answered the door, but her smile couldn't have been more welcoming.

 

“Hi, Greg. Come in!”

 

She ushered him through the door and into the living room, divesting him of his carrier bag and jacket simultaneously. 

 

“Molly's in the kitchen being creative.” she explained. “You're very brown, where have you been?”

 

“Canary Islands for a couple of weeks. When did you get back?”

 

“Just this morning. To be honest, I'm still pretty jetlagged but I wasn't going to turn down Molly's bread and butter pudding.”

 

“I know,” sighed Greg. “It's incredible. Look I don't want to be a third wheel here. I can bugger off if you two would rather be alone.”

 

“Don't be daft,” she replied, her dark eyes flashing. “Plenty time for that. It's a week till the festival starts, Molly will have my undivided attention till then.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Molly interrupted them by yelling that dinner was out and to get their arses in there now.

 

Molly was flushed with the heat from the kitchen as she put the serving dishes on the table and invited them to dig in, which everyone did with gusto. She knocked the top of a bottle of BrewDog and passed it to Greg before doing the same for herself and Stella.

 

“You look incredible.” said Molly. “And thanks for the rum”

 

“It's nothing. I had time to get a bit of perspective. How was Scotland?”

 

“Bloody freezing. And talk about rain! I don't think I've been properly dry since Covent Garden.”

 

Greg smiled, relaxing as his belly filled and the beer worked its magic.

 

“Did you enjoy America?” he asked Stella. “I bet you didn't get much sightseeing done.”

 

“We didn't. It's really intense, touring like that and if you do get a day off you're usually too knackered to do anything but rest. I enjoyed it though, honestly the people there. .it's like upper-class Beatlemania. They were going mad for Irene and Mycroft…” she stuttered to a halt, exchanging significant looks with Molly.

 

“It's okay, you can mention his name,” laughed Greg but Stella didn't smile. She turned her eyes on Greg and said.

 

“I've known Mycroft for a while now, but I've never seen him so driven, never seen such impeccable performances from anyone. And offstage he was utterly miserable, vindictive and spiteful when he wasn't sulking in his dressing room. Look Greg, you can tell me to mind my own business but whatever went wrong between you two, it really hurt him.”

 

“I might get the chance to ask him next week,” said Greg gently. “Your dinner is getting cold.”

  
  
  


A week later, Greg drove over to pick up Molly and Philip so they could get to Glyndebourne and get set up before the crowds arrived. 

 

The other two were chatty and upbeat but Greg was practically monosyllabic. His heart stuttered at the thought of seeing Mycroft again and there was the curious case of the eleven red roses that had been delivered to his house that morning. 

 

Eleven was a strange number but as he rammed them into an empty curry sauce jar filled with water, he re-read the card that had accompanied them.

 

_ Art is not enough. Nothing is enough without you to share it. Let me tell you the rest when I hand you the final rose. _

 

Greg hoped he'd interpreted it correctly and it wasn't some hideous attempt by Karen to try and get back with him.

 

He stopped tormenting himself when he guided the van up to the Glyndebourne gates.

 

“BBC?” sniffed the security man after scrutinizing their laminated passes. “Round the back. Delivery entrance. “

 

“Tradesman's entrance more like,” muttered Greg as he followed the signs and found a parking space. They unloaded the van and trooped off in search of someone who might know what was going on. 

 

Sally Donovan was there, looking as harried as ever.

 

“There's a room been set aside for you to use. Here's the key. Now there are a few camera crews out front, foreign networks mostly, but I've made sure you get the spot with the best view of the stage. After all,” she continued with a truly wicked grin,” If the documentary does well we shouldn't have to go hunting for funding. I hope you do us proud.”

 

“We will,” Greg assured her and she walked off, satisfied. 

 

“We'd better get set up,” said Philip to Molly and she followed him as he muttered about making sure the foreign lot didn't try anything funny.

 

“I suppose I'd better find this room, then.” said Greg to no one.

 

In the end, it wasn't hard, not when there was a sign on it with BBC FOUR Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper Philip Anderson printed in block capitals.

 

Greg put the key in the lock and let himself in to what was a glorified broom cupboard. At least it had a couple of chairs in it and Greg sat in one of them. 

 

Well, he was here. What was he going to do next?

 

There was a knock at the door, derailing his train of thought. Wondering if one of the other two needed something, he got up and threw open the door.

 

Mycroft was standing there, pale as newly fallen snow and in his hand was clasped a single red rose. He wasn't even dressed to perform: in jeans and a sweatshirt he looked different, younger, more vulnerable and Greg felt his heart fail. 

 

“You'd better come in,” said Greg. There was barely room for two of them in there but Greg closed the door behind Mycroft and stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Mycroft to speak. 

 

Mycroft looked in no hurry to say anything, his eyes fixed on Greg as the stem of the rose twisted in his long fingers.

 

“Thank you for the other eleven.” said Greg. “I hoped they were from you.”

 

“I'm sorry!” The words blurted out of Mycroft, his expression becoming anguished.

 

“I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go. I told myself I had no time for a relationship, that you were just a beautiful distraction. The world is full of them and there would always be another one. You were still reeling from what your wife did to you, I was just helping you revalidate yourself. Then I realised what a pile of bullshit that was because my every thought was of you. Halfway across the Atlantic I knew I had made the biggest mistake of my life because I had fallen in love with you. I do love you, Greg. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for being a total arse.”

 

Greg took Mycroft in his arms and held him, using his fingers to wipe away the tears on Mycroft's cheeks  he hadn't realised he'd shed.

 

“You are a total arse,” agreed Greg. “I had plenty of time to think while you were away but it didn't change anything really. I'm in love with you, you pillock.”

 

Mycroft gave him a dazed, watery smile in reply.

 

“Can we start again?” he asked.

 

“On one condition. I won't share you with anyone, do you understand? I've had enough of that with Karen. “

 

“Why would I ever want anyone else?”

 

Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft's wet eyes, his cheeks and finally, his lips.

 

“I can't sing my aria any more,” confessed Mycroft, clinging tightly to Greg. “Every single time I sang it, it evoked so many perfect moments with you and I couldn't bear the pain.”

 

“Maybe it's time for a new song,” suggested Greg. Mycroft smiled at that.

 

“Maybe it is. Darling, I have to go and get ready. Will you wait for me?”

 

“For the rest of my life,” promised Greg, and kissed him again.

 

The End.

  
  


CODA 

 

“Tantrums and Turandot” was broadcast three months later to great critical acclaim and was nominated for three BAFTA awards. 

 

Thanks to that, the National Opera never lacked for funding again.

 

Molly and Stella celebrated the nomination by moving in together. They are together still and Molly still makes incredible shepherd’s pie.

 

Greg's divorce was finalised six weeks after Glyndebourne. Mycroft proposed to him at Christmas and they were married in February with Molly as Greg's best man. Greg never tired of seeing  _ Produced and Directed by Greg Holmes-Lestrade  _ come up on the credits screen.

 

Fin.


End file.
